


Red

by RockSaltandCherryPie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ass Play, Feminization, M/M, Rough play, Sam In Panties, Spanking, Underage - Freeform, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, panty!kink, red lace ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6087718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockSaltandCherryPie/pseuds/RockSaltandCherryPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <img/><br/></p>
</div>He knew it was wrong, so so wrong, but they were there, in a wide basket full of freshly-cleaned clothes, the only splash of red amongst greys and nudes, right on top. There was something inside of Sam that wanted to touch them, feel them, look at them unfolded.
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> **Edit 5/9/2016:** Wow, so.. idk why but I had two versions of this? except i accidentally just deleted the better copy ://///// AKA the one that had all of your comments and kudos [sob] i'm very upset rn but in case you read again, please don't forget to comment and kudos one more time so I can see them. I appreciate it!
> 
> \--------
> 
> So, it dawned on me that I didn't have a Sam in panties fic. And that needed to change.

It all starts with lace underwear. Just a thin piece of bright red fabric, really, but it had immeasurable power. The power to make a guy completely fall apart over his little brother. Yeah, that kind of power.

Sam's fourteen. He's that age in between too young to know any better and old enough to know better. It's fairly often that Dean and Dad assert their unwarranted opinions about which side he lands on. Dad expects Sam to not make any mistakes. Doesn't come outright and say it, but Dean knows that's what he's thinking half the time when a case goes sideways and Sam's at fault. Like that time he didn't do enough research and gave them faulty information on how to kill something. Or when he trips up, can't pull through with slicing something's head off when the time calls for it and quick. Almost getting himself killed usually follows those kinds of mistakes. And Dad pretty often takes out his frustration by shouting, or keeping Sam off cases. Dean still thinks he needs to be a little gentler with the kid. He's still growing. Still got baby-soft skin, dimpled cheeks and doe-eyes. Still whimpers in his sleep sometimes.

But there's something, something recently, that has Dean questioning exactly which side of the fourteen-year-old spectrum Sam falls on. And it's not accidental or a mistake of any sort. It's completely intentional.

Dean first sees it the morning they're left alone again to a note that sits idly on the nightstand between the two motel beds, a note that reads _Gone into town to question witnesses. Be back tonight_ in scribbled uppercase lettering. Dean promised Dad he would get Sam active today, start him off with some target practice (which usually involved shooting at used soda cans) and then some sparring. Get his basic skills up. He was pretty good, but most of the time he gave in and let Dean win in their wrestling matches.

At 7AM Dean hits the alarm clock off, sits on the edge of the bed and rubs the sleep from his eyes. He glances at Sam, still fast asleep on his side, and opens his mouth to make the usual verbal wake-up call. Only his eyes catch something and instantly freeze for whatever reason. Sam's sweatpants are riding pretty low, so that the crack of his ass is showing, and it's showing what's underneath. Bright red underwear. That looks like it has some sort of pattern on it. Wait, no. Dean stands now, and from a new perspective he sees that they're lace. _Lace underwear?_ Dean would probably laugh if he wasn't so goddamn confused. He racks his brain trying to recall if there wasn't some dare, some bet Sam lost between the two of them. He searches for some explanation that might provide a reason for this, but nothing comes up. And still there it remains, vibrant red peaking out beneath the loose elastic band of grey sweats, and it doesn't go away. Dean decides to ignore it, clearing his throat and proceeding to wake Sam up for training.  

 

Sam rises out of sleep to the sound of Dean's voice exclaiming it's time for target practice. Sam groans, shifting onto his stomach.

"What time is it?" He asks defiantly, smothering his face in the pillow, craving the darkness for at least a few more minutes.

"It's seven," he hears Dean reply.

"Seven!" How was Dean always so awake and motivated to do crap like this this early?

It's only when Sam shifts and slides against his stomach that he remembers the underwear. They're constricting, tight and they ride up the crease of his ass and it instantly sets off his arousal. He glances over his shoulder and Dean's gone. Thank god, too, because he feels his lower back exposed and there's a chance Dean could have seen something. He pulls the covers up over his waist, palms desperately between his legs and sighs deeply. It was his first night wearing the underwear. He had picked them up at the laundromat back in Cleveland, hadn't even seen who they had belonged to. He knew it was wrong, so so wrong, but they were there, in a wide basket full of freshly-cleaned clothes, the only splash of red amongst greys and nudes, right on top. There was something inside of Sam that wanted to touch them, feel them, look at them unfolded. Impulse won, which was a rare occurrence with Sam to begin with. Acting before thinking was usually Dean's forte, so it came as a shock to Sam when he snatched them out of the basket, stuffed them in his own and left the place feeling like a thief with strangely perverted tendencies. Which was new. He had absolutely no idea where any of it had come from.

He hadn't touched them at all since getting back to the motel they were staying at at the time, like he was somehow terrified of the unknown power they yielded, and that if he touched them, that would be the end of it. But, shutting himself up in the bathroom, he plucked them out of the pile of clothes and held them up with shaking hands. They were the brightest red he had ever seen, and also the softest thing he had ever felt. They seemed to melt in his hands, like if he was too hot they would just fall apart between his fingers. They didn't scratch or pull against his callouses, but instead, like liquid seeped over them and around them. They smelled sweet, like sugar on flowers. He kept them in his duffle bag like a secret unblossomed rose.

He thought about them the entire drive up to Wisconsin, started to think about what it would feel like to actually _put them on_ , and on the second night they were in town he caved. He slipped them on under his sweats after Dean and Dad had gone to bed. It felt even better than he had imagined. They fit him like a glove, hugging him snugly, and all he did before falling asleep was finger the fabric consistently and deliberate how weird he was and what Dean might have to say about it. Most of all, the thought that Dad would probably disown him if he discovered this excited him more than it had any right to, and the idea that he would probably try to beat some sense into him or kick him out on the street crawled around like an unsettling spark in his stomach.

 

xxx

 

It's a hot, unforgiving day, and Sam doesn't seem to be making any effort. They're out back behind the motel on an empty plot of land that looks like it hasn't been touched in over a century. Dean's been quizzing Sam for the last three hours about what kills what monster while Sam shoots at cans with an old Mossberg rifle. Sam's giving clipped, frustrated responses that Dean pays no mind to, just keeps firing them out after every shot.

"Undead?" "Headshot."

"Shifter?" "Silver."

"Werewolf?" "Silver, decapitation."

"Ghost?" "Iron. Burning the remains."

"Chupacabra?" "Dean, do we have to do this?" Sam huffs, letting his shoulders sink and the gun fall. "Dad's not even here. I'm sweating and thirsty."

Dean sighs and stands up, brushing himself off. "Stop being so whiny."

Sam drops the rifle. "You do it if you're so adamant about this crap!" He storms away.

Dean gapes, then picks up the rifle and follows Sam. "Sam, get back here."

Sam glances back and picks up his pace, aware he's being chased. They bolt around to the front of the motel and dart up one flight of stairs to get to their room. Sam slams into the door, reaching in his back pocket for the tiny key. Dean takes deliberate steps toward him, noticing the excitement on Sam's face when he gets the door open and flashes wide, spirited eyes at Dean. He clamors inside and slams Dean out.

Dean bangs on the door. "Oh, you're gonna get it!" He teases, just trying to get a rise out of Sam as he fumbles around in his jeans for his own key.

 

Sam's heart's racing, he can't contain the grin that's stretching across his face. He hears Dean fumbling with the key outside and his chest skids over a breath. He hurries into the bedroom, slamming the door shut just as he hears the front one open. He backs up slowly, almost tripping over the bed, waiting for Dean to find him.

"Can't hide from me, Sammy!" Loud footsteps get closer and closer. Sam jumps as the door bursts open, screeching and giggling as he backs away into one of the windows.

"Oh no you don't!" Dean grabs him frantically, wrapping thick arms around his waist and pulling him in from behind. Sam careens forward, squealing, desperately trying to combat Dean's strength. Dean just tosses him on the bed and pins him down, straddling his hips with incomparable brawn.

Sam struggles but it just makes Dean rise and fall, rather weakly.

"C'mon, Sammy, put some effort into it. You're barely making a dent, here."

"Shut up!" Sam lunges forward and it makes Dean lift up a little, but he only slams him back down harder after that.

The breath leaves Sam's chest forcefully. "You're too strong. I can't."

Dean traps his wrists, leaning forward. His amulet falls out of his shirt and almost hits Sam in the face. "Well you gotta be strong too. Can't have you acting like a sissy."

Sam's about to push back but then he panics. Dean's staring down at him with intent green eyes, almost like he's reading his mind. _Did he know about the underwear?_ He was still wearing them, hadn't bothered to take them off. Sam glances down. Dean's knee is pressed up against Sam's hip, it's pushing his sweatpants down. Sam anxiously nudges his body lower, trying to maneuver his hips so that his pants slide higher up. It doesn't work.

"Get off," Sam attempts, but Dean only struggles with him more, and somehow he manages to get Sam on his stomach.

"No, I still gotta punish you for ditching target practice like a little brat," Dean asserts in his ear, and just the words get Sam's blood pumping faster than his chest can catch up with. Excitement creeps up his stomach and burns his face hot as his face gets smothered in the pillow.

"How do you want me to punish you?" Dean toys, planting his hands on Sam's ass.

Sam gasps, a thickness forming in his mouth, too thick to swallow or speak over.

He receives a light tap on his butt, then another, then another. "Like this?"

Giggles bubble out of Sam before he knows it. He squirms around, an uncontrollable heat gathering between his legs. "No!"

Dean gives in and chuckles along with him. "Too bad."

More playful taps. One cheek, then the next, and back and forth. It's too light to be a punishment. Dean was never able to bring it upon himself to actually _hurt_ Sam, whatever the circumstances were. But Sam was tired of playing.

"I can barely feel that!" Sam exclaims, glancing behind himself.

"Oh rrreally? So you want it to hurt, huh? Sicko."

Sam laughs because he's too excited to do anything else. "Mhm."

And the next one really does. It takes his breath away, literally. He gasps when he feels it, feels the sharp sting and hears the loud crack, even through the layer of his sweats. Dean definitely didn't hold back that time.

"How about that one? You feel that one?"

Sam regains control of his breath again. "Yeah..."

And another comes. On the same cheek. Sam's unable to conceal the sharp breath he takes in, and the sting radiates up his back and down his legs. Dean keeps them coming, the vibrations making their way to his groin where his growing dick is trapped behind the lace material. It hurts, apparently Dean knows exactly what he's doing, but it's turning him on quicker than anything he's ever felt. He feels the lace against his burning butt cheek, cool and soothing in contrast.

Dean leans down over Sam's ear. "You like that? You like it, don't you?"

Sam practically whimpers, his eyes watering. His stuttering breaths come out humid on the pillow, quick and deliberate.

Dean slaps him hard again and again. Sam closes his eyes tight, snaking a hand in between his legs to halt whatever is happening down there.

After three more calculated smacks, Dean retreats, sitting back on his knees. Sam's still trapped underneath him, and now that his ass is good and sore he doesn't want to move right away.

"You had enough?" Dean asks. His palm actually rubs over the spot he had just been pulverizing, and it stings but it's also warm and gentle and so so good.

Sam's voice catches in his throat, heavy with thick saliva. He hasn't, he probably could have taken that all day long, but in order to appear somewhat normal to Dean, he utters out a small "I think so."

"I think so too. Your ass is probably beet red by now."

Sam freezes as Dean pulls down the band of his sweatpants. He doesn't try to stop it from happening. There's a heavy moment of silence that's loaded with terror and anxiety, and Sam holds his breath. He feels Dean's fingers lightly trace over the fabric of the underwear. Sam's brain is practically short-circuiting, unable to form any thoughts at all, nothing. Nothing comes except his breath and barely; it escapes his lips in shaky, almost absent puffs as closes his eyes and lets Dean's fingers trail delicately over the secret Sam had been harboring for the past week.

"What is this?" Dean doesn't sound too shocked, just a little — okay, a lot — confused. Sam glances behind him, shifting underneath Dean. Dean just stares down, lips parted, eyes fixed and mesmerized, though strangely unreadable.

"I just... I just like the way it feels. That's all," Sam's relieved he could even form coherent words, and Dean doesn't say anything so for a long, sickening few seconds Sam considers the fact that Dean thinks he's some sort of a twisted nutcase. Luckily that thought leaves just as quickly as all the others.

"Dean... don't tell Dad, okay?"

Dean's fingers dip in beneath the hem, running along the entire top of the underwear. His fingers brush over the raw skin on Sam's ass cheek (which is almost as red as the goddamn underwear now, by the way), and it makes shivers crawl up Sam's entire body. Dean snaps the underwear against his skin and pushes off of Sam.

"Dean?" Sam flips over on the bed and watches as Dean leaves the room.

He stops in the doorway. "I won't tell Dad. Just... don't wear them again."

 

And he doesn't.

Sam spends the next few weeks absolutely mortified, disgusted with himself for wearing the stupid red underwear. He considered throwing the underwear away. He really did. Dean's reaction, however clipped it was, was enough to leave Sam with a bitter taste in his mouth about the whole experience. Though somehow he _still_ couldn't bring himself to get rid of the thing, try as he might. He even washed it once, throwing it in with their load of laundry before hiding it away again. He keeps it out of sight at all times, stuffed away somewhere amongst his plaid and his grey, lifeless boxers. It wasn't long before they were on the road again, their stuff packed in the trunk of the old Impala. Dean kept his promise and never brought up the underwear to their dad. In fact, he never brought it up period.

 

There's a case in New York, a child mauled to death on their way home from school. Doesn't really sound like it could be there kind of thing, but they haven't caught a case since Wisconsin and Dad was beginning to get anxious.

They rent out a motel room in a two-story joint off an old inert highway, dumping their things in a room on the second floor. Dad proceeds to assert to them that he's going to take care of this case, and that since the victim was a kid he preferred that Sam stay at the motel and Dean watch out for him. They had to respect his wishes. Didn't have much a choice.

Dad leaves them with some money for the next few days. Sam never knows where Dad sleeps while he's on cases, because he never comes back to the motels. If he even sleeps at all, that is.

 

Sam could tell Dean's antsy too, itching for something to kill. He cleans the guns repeatedly the first night they're there, while Sam lies on the opposite bed, reading through an issue of Mr. Monster. Sam keeps glancing up at the way Dean's fists work the barrels, forceful, concentrated... and when he's done with one he moves on to the next, giving it the same careful attention as the last.

For a long while the swiping sound of the long, metal barrels is the soundtrack of the night, and that's alright with Sam. Though he can't help but wonder what's going through Dean's head; if he feels any resentment towards Sam for always holding him back from going on cases with Dad. It's not like it was Sam's fault — Sam would willingly jump on any case, is as a matter of fact quite fed up of being the family scapegoat, is desperate to prove that he can and _does_ do things right. If they would just give him a chance, he wouldn't have to —

"You still have that lace underwear?" Dean's voice, nonchalant and yet remarkably intrusive cuts in to Sam's thoughts.

"What?" Is the first thing that comes out of Sam's mouth, and he drops the comic book a little.

Dean just looks up, shrugs and sets aside the gun he was holding. He stands, brushing his jeans off. "Remember that red skimpy thing you were wearing a while ago?"

Sam gapes, watching Dean not making eye contact with him. He sets Mr. Monster on the nightstand by the bed. _Obviously_ Sam remembered. The real question was why Dean was bringing it up now. Because Sam was absolutely certain _Dean_ was the one who hadn't bothered to care enough to remember it.

"Yeah..." Sam notices that his voice isn't as composed as he wants it to be.

"You're not wearing it now, are you?" Dean teases, and an amused grin appears on his face.

"What? No! God." Sam hasn't even _thought_ about putting them back on since Dean expressed his apparent opinion about them, he hasn't allowed himself to. He hasn't even looked at them at all aside from shoving them either deep in his duffle or at the back of drawers. The fact that Dean's asking about them now is so out of the blue Sam doesn't even know how to respond.

"What did you do with them?" Suddenly Dean's oddly curious, it makes Sam almost angry. This whole time Sam had been thinking Dean found the thought and sight of them absolutely ridiculous.

"I got rid of them," Sam lies simply, eyes dropping to a spec on the bed.

Dean just stares, standing at the foot of the bed. "I don't believe you." He starts opening drawers and digging around in the dresser by the bathroom door. Sam's heart leaps, picking up speed.

"Dean," he tries, but Dean ignores him, plucking at clothes in the drawers, getting everything in a disarray.

"Aha! I knew it." Dean unearths the underwear from the top drawer, pulling it out and letting it unravel in his hand. It looks so erotic in between Dean's fingers, Sam's face gets hot just looking at it again after all this time. "Liar."

"So what?" Sam raises his voice defensively, sitting up straighter.

Dean examines him, getting that glint in his eye that he often does when he's reading Sam. He's able to do that so easily. "You haven't worn them since I told you not to, have you?"

Sam frowns, fingering the bedspread.

"Sammy?"

He glances up, lips tight and perked. "No."

Dean doesn't laugh or say anything stupid or degrading. He actually seems... _sorry_.

He tosses them on the bed. "So put 'em on."

They hit Sam's knee and rest there. He feels them, taking them up in his hand. "What?" He thumbs the fabric; still as soft as the petals of a rose, and swallows hard. "But I thought you didn't want me to."

Dean sits back on his own bed, putting on an indifferent voice that Sam's starting to think might be phony. "I'm just saying, you seem to really like them, so why not?"

Well, Sam can't say no to that. He leaps off the bed and shuts himself in the bathroom just like the very first night he put them on. Except it's different now, because Dean knows what he's doing. Everything's so much more intentional. So after Sam drops his pajama pants and kicks aside his boxers, he takes his time. He slides the underwear up his thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake as he goes. He fits it over his hips, feels the soft lace rub up in between the crease of his ass and pulls higher so that it fits as tight as he likes it. He feels dangerous with them on, imagines Dad walking in on him like this. Imagines Dad asking Dean about it and what Dean would say. Would he pretend to know nothing about it? Would he stop Dad from beating the shit out of Sam, come to protect him like he always does, or would he watch it happen?

He feels sexy. Now that Sam knows Dean didn't truly mean to say that he never wanted Sam to wear the underwear again, he allows himself to think a thought he never had the courage to before. That Dean might actually be attracted to him. The fact that Dean pretty much _told_ him to go put them on has Sam's excitement growing, along with... a certain part of his body.

He slides his pajamas over the underwear and comes out of the bathroom. It's enough of a treat for him to perhaps sleep content for the night, so he collapses back on the bed and fluffs up the pillow under his head. He thought Dean was going to go back to cleaning the guns, but he's still just sitting on the edge of the bed watching Sam. Sam feels his eyes on him so he looks over. He doesn't wanna say anything, but Dean's just like... _waiting_ for something.

"What?" Sam finally asks.

"Well? Aren't you gonna show me?" And it's the way Dean just says it so _simply_ that has Sam starting to giggle.

"What?" Suddenly he flushes red, because as much as his brain was concocting shit like this over the past two weeks, to actually have it materialize before him was a whole other ballgame that he was ill-prepared for.

At least Dean kind of smiles, too. It's like a game or something. "Show me."

Butterflies fly around in Sam's stomach, he feels himself growing in the underwear just at Dean's words alone. His voice falters and his knees go weak. "Fine. Turn off the lights."

And suddenly they're in darkness. And it's perfectly silent. And Sam's fingering the waistline of his pajama pants, and Dean's watching him, and he can't for the life of him recall what events led to them to this moment, but he doesn't want to. All he wants to do is look good for Dean.

"Turn around," Dean instructs in a low voice. Sam can barely see Dean anymore, but he doesn't try to. He obeys, facing his back to Dean. With shaking hands and faint, inaudible breaths, Sam peels down his pajama pants to reveal his ass to Dean. He slowly lets them drop and steps out of them, never looking down.

He could swear he hears Dean curse under his breath.

Now that Sam's eyes have somewhat adjusted, he glances behind himself and watches Dean just stare, familiar older-brother eyes now dark and predatory. It makes the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand up, and his arousal take complete hold of him. It's so strong he starts to feel lightheaded.

"Let me see the front," Dean practically whispers, low voice cracking.

Sam does as he says, turning around, hand modestly trailing over his now fully hard dick beneath the constricting lace. Shamelessly, though, he wants Dean to see all of him. He drops his faltering hand, fingertips brushing his thigh. He looks down, vicious heat taking to his cheeks, his chest under his cropped tee, his groin. Dean's eyes are a physical weight, caressing his body all over, up and down, with just a gaze and a flutter of lashes.

"Shit," Dean slips out under his breath.

Sam looks down at him through heavy lids, wanting desperately to actually be touched, though unable to make any move whatsoever.

"Lie on the bed," Dean instructs, palming at his denim-clad crotch.

Sam practically falls over the bed, getting on it, his knees knocking together.

"No, on your stomach."

Sam flips over, face smothering in the soft fresh-smelling pillow. His back arches as Dean climbs over him.

"Fuck," Dean groans, smothering Sam's body with his own. His belt buckle rubs against the lace, ice cold and hard, and Sam actually rubs back into it on sheer impulse. Dean's thighs cover Sam's bare ones on the bed, the covers swish and pull.

Dean breathes in his ear. "So fucking hot, fuck."

Dean feels him, _touches_ him, rubs his hands down his back and over his ass and Sam whimpers, electrical sparks setting off inside him. He pushes back against Dean and feels Dean's hard length press up against the crease of the thin underwear. Dean noses in his hair, faintly groans against his neck while his hands grab and squeeze at the panties.

Sam gasps, feeling the lace starting to soak through at the front.

"Mmm," Dean coos in his ear. "You like it rough, don't you?" The meat of his palms dig in to Sam's ass.

Sam cries out softly, taking in a sharp breath. "Y-yeah..."

He hears Dean unfastening his belt and the sharp yank of a zipper. Sam reaches down and gets a hand on himself, feeling his hard, dripping length through the material. He rubs off on his hand, desperately grinding his hips down on it.

Dean comes back down over him and slides his hands around his front, capturing Sam's fingers in his own. "Here, let me do it."

Sam moves his hand away and lets Dean take over, and instantly lets out this pathetic sounding mewl. Dean's hand, rough and thick, slides over his shaft and down behind his balls. His cock gives an involuntary pulse, wetting the red lace even more. Dean's so much stronger, bigger than him that the next movement has them glued together; Sam feels the press of the head of Dean's bare dick between them, hot and hard, chafing the underwear. Sam fists the sheets as Dean frees his cock of the confines of the panties and wraps a firm hand around him, stroking long and slow all the way to the base. He squeezes, and doesn't let up. His thumb coaxes another pulse out of Sam, dragging all the way up to the head and swiveling in the slit.

He keeps a steady rhythm, and Sam grinds back against Dean, falling apart and feeling like he's going to explode out of his skin. He pushes against Dean's hand, letting Dean squeeze the orgasm out of him. It's too much. He lets the pillow catch his scream. In a flash he comes, and everything's being violently torn from him, white hot searing cream spills and spills, over Dean's hand, painting the sheets beneath him. He spreads his legs and practically collapses. Dean twists his wrist again and again, and it never seems to end. Even when it's over it's not over, because Dean's behind him jerking his own cock quick and rough. His hand pushes Sam's t-shirt high up around his ribs, sporadically jumping from his back to his ass while he works himself to his peak.

"Fuck," Dean gasps and holds the breath in, and then Sam feels warm, gloopy come splattering across his back.

He still can't catch his breath. Even as Dean crumples over him, chest heaving and muscles straining. They lie glued together for a few precious minutes that Sam wishes would last forever.

When everything starts to cool down and become messy and sticky Dean takes his shirt off and cleans Sam with it.

But Sam doesn't care. His eyes are already heavy enough to demand sleep, and so he allows them to close. He also allows Dean to pull his pants on for him because he's far too boneless and wrung-out to do it himself.

Dean sleeps with a heavy arm across Sam's ribs the entire night. And when they wake up, he's the same way. The gentle sun plays on their bare skin, warm and golden-yellow, and Sam swears he's never been as happy as he is right now. He doesn't even care about the underwear anymore, though he does feel deeply indebted to them. He got everything he wanted. The next step would be to actually have sex. But he stashes those thoughts away for another day, closing his eyes and pulling Dean in closer.

  



End file.
